


Going With It

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam Winchester, Explicit Consent, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6579268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean walks in on Sam. A better man would walk right back out, but Dean's never been <i>that</i> good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going With It

**Author's Note:**

> I need to sleep and I had a glass of wine.
> 
> This is terrible. Enjoy.
> 
> Comfort warnings for mentions of rape and underage sexuality.

* * *

 

Dean’s day _had_ been uneventful. Boring. His neck aches from the long hours crouched over his tablet’s screen and he’s done nothing noteworthy, nothing _useful_  - just the way he loves it. But this - _this_ was unexpected. This was not what he had expected walking up to Sam’s door with his tablet in hand, just wanting to share a moderately hilarious article with him after hearing him _finally_ come back from the bath he’d already concluded the younger had drowned in.

His first gut reaction had been to shut the door, spin around on his heels and carry on with his life like he’d never seen his little brother finger his own ass, cheeks pink and body twitching to the pleasure he felt at the touch.

Then came the shame. He’d felt that, and he still feels it. It’s right there underneath the panic and the void where disgust should linger. But damn, he’s just not feeling that. The third phase is just - gone. Replaced by the _wrong_ third phase: arousal.

He knows he shouldn’t be watching. He knows he shouldn’t be hanging half-leaving, half-staying in the doorway, gut cold like ice at the thought of Sam spotting him, but he can’t just _go_ either. He’s not exactly sure why - it’s not like he hasn’t walked away from all sorts of impossible situations, fought against _curses_ that want nothing more than for him to stay. It’s just... it’s just that this is just like someone dug out his deepest, darkest thoughts and slapped him in the face with them. The ones he maybe once or twice let out, drunk off his ass, with his hand down his pants. And it’s just like he’s suddenly in a dream, some kind of a nightmare, just stuck where he stands. Rooted. With a warm iPad pressed against his side, forgotten, and his cock full and aching hard against the fabric of his skin-licking briefs because he’s not wearing anything else but those and his worn Zeppelin shirt. Cheeks red. Pupils dilated. Lips parted to let his breath out, as if his nose is suddenly too small for the amount of oxygen he needs.

And what the hell can he do about it anymore anyway? If he goes, he’ll still have this hell of an erection and the loud ringing in his ears and he _knows_ that if he locks himself in his bedroom, he’ll fuck his own hand raw imagining its his _own brother,_ thinking of those parted lips and the wet tongue licking across them like Sam was inviting him in, thinking of the way the other twitched, shivered when he slipped another finger inside his ass. Imagining what it’d be like if it was Dean’s own cock instead - imagining what his own little brother felt like to fuck.

And that’s just it - he’s at a moral stalemate where no matter what he does, he loses. So as if to escape the situation and his own unforgivable reaction to it, he stays to watch as Sam props himself up on his elbow, panting, and covers that expensive-looking toy that Dean is almost _certain_  is hand-crafted, not factory-made, with a thick coat of lube.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

He’s got about twelve seconds to get his feet off the ground and his ass back in his own bedroom where he can _maybe_ pretend that he’s looking at some undoubtedly racist porn again and not at the film on loop inside his own brain. Ten seconds. Eight seconds, and it’s all over for him.

It’s not a conscious choice. It’s just like that time when he saw porn for the first time, not by accident but because he deliberately changed the channel, curious and horny and also 12 years old with a somewhat unrefined understanding of self-control, and had the third, maybe fourth orgasm of his life in less than fifteen seconds while Sam was sleeping obliviously beside him on the shared motel bed. He just freezes and stands there, hypnotized, trembling, as Sam presses that fake cock against his hole and takes it with a moan, burying his face into his mattress. He watches how the younger fucks himself with it, slowly, gently, dragging each movement with his fist running erratically over his cock in jerky, uncontrolled flashes, and his breath is stuck in his throat and his cock _throbs_  and he feels like he’s most likely the worst person on earth, spying on his baby brother and getting off on it.

Then the iPad slips. He catches it, sure, but he also - well, he - yeah. He doesn’t hear it happen, but he sure as hell feels it: his head knocks right into the door, supposedly with something of a bang, and a fairly audible gasp leaves him more out of surprise than out of pain. It doesn’t really hurt.

What really, really hurts is the sound of the bed snapping loudly when Sam jumps up in it.

“Shit,” Dean hears himself say.

Sheepishly, he pulls up again - the tablet securely against his side again, but his fingers frozen solid around it - and, knowing it’s useless to pretend like this all was a big misunderstanding of some shape or form, he digs his free fingers between the door and the frame and gives it a tug. Behind it, Sam’s staring at him, fallen pale but with the aroused, hot blush over his cheeks still intact, and he looks back at him, grimacing.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man.”

Sam, as if guided by some unholy knowledge of everything that Dean does _not_  want him to see, looks down his body. He swallows thickly at the sight of his older brother’s cock hard underneath the hem of his loose shirt and his eyes dart up, barely cross Dean’s features, then jump towards the wall instead. He clears his throat and shoves the toy under a wrinkle in the sheets as if to make it disappear.

“Tell me you weren’t -” he says in a strangled voice, but doesn’t know how to continue.

Dean knows what he was about to ask, anyway.  
Watching.

Yeah, he sure was, but that’s not a question that Sam wants an answer to.

“I didn’t mean to,” he croaks, and for some stupid fucking reason, steps inside the room as if a good talk could make this all better.

His brain is throbbing. His _cock_ is throbbing, but also kind of struggling to pull back in terror like those two things weren’t completely opposite from each other.

“Look, Sam, it’s -”

Sam looks at him, and they both fall quiet. Dean really doesn’t know what to tell him - Sam just wants him to leave. And he should do that. That’d be an excellent idea.

He takes a step back again, then freezes. The worst half-completed thought he’s ever thought stops him right there, makes him reconsider leaving.

“You, uh. Didn’t mean to - didn’t mean to spy on you. I walked here to show you something and I didn’t - I didn’t know what to do when I, um, when I saw. You. And uh, that.”

Sam looks away again. The blush on his cheeks grows stronger.

“You, uh,” Dean says again.  
Shuts up. His brain’s still ringing. An entire ocean has flooded inside his ears.  
“You want me to - uh - go, right?”

Their eyes meet, and for a second, there’s utter, pure confusion on Sam’s face. Of course he wants Dean to leave. That’s the worst question of the century. The stupidest, most useless, the absolute dumbest, the most insensitive -

“You _want_  to go?” Sam’s voice cuts him off.

Dean grows entirely too aware of his erection and the fact that he’s still standing exposed in the middle fof Sam’s bedroom, and Sam’s question is doubtful, almost like the blade of a knife undressing him and carving at the toxic darkness in him that made him ask in the first place. Dean doesn’t know what to tell him. Yes, of course he wants to go. But he also really, _really_ doesn’t.

“I mean... um, I should, right.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he pulls his knees up against his chest a little tighter and scratches at the other even though Dean’s fairly certain he’s not itching right now. Then, to Dean’s surprise, he shrugs.

“You wanted to show me something?” he asks from the bed.

“Uh - yeah. Right. That. Yeah.”

Dean pulls up the tablet, and his finger trembles when he lights up the screen. He takes a step towards the bed, intending to hand the tablet to Sam, but as he does so, the only light in the room suddenly goes off with a snap. It takes him a second to realise _Sam_  was the one to turn it off, that it wasn’t a bulb shattering: he wants to ask, but he’s suddenly scared, suddenly immobilized again. Instead of speaking, he seeks out the edge of the bed and sits on it, far enough from Sam to pretend like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the situation and that he’s just going to show him the article and _go_  and maybe that’s still the plan. Maybe Sam’s just hiding the fact that he’s naked and they’re both aroused, and just when Dean’s getting comfortable with that thought, Sam takes the tablet from him and turns it off again.

They sit in the darkness, the only light left in the room the crack in the door showing the corridor’s lights from around a corner, and Dean almost wishes he was a thousand miles from here and that _none_ of this would have happened. Then, hesitant and timid, Sam’s hand brushes over his side. He catches a shiver from it, his entire body turning to goosebumps, and a small breath escapes him. He breathes out and wants to cry.

“I’m the worst piece of shit in the entire world, you know that, right?” he asks from the stars behind his lids.

“Mm,” Sam says and leans back again, “No. Not really. This is just... I don’t think either of us really - know what to do with this.”

“Do with what?”

“Any of this.”

There’s suddenly a void opening up inside Dean and spreading to where he sits. It’s like reality breaking down around him, collapsing into him. He looks at where his brother’s outline sits and he realises that Sam’s _considering_ it - considering the thought that Dean hasn’t really thought but in which he didn’t really believe _at all_ , and which now suddenly seems like a real  _option_ , and he’s never felt more scared or conflicted in his life.

“We shouldn’t -” he utters, and he doesn’t understand what the hell he was thinking of, crawling into the room in the first place.

Sam chuckles hollowly.  
“No. But...”

Dean waits, but he doesn’t continue.  
“Yeah?” he asks, shaking again.

Sam clears his throat, moves something on the bed - probably the lube - and settles back again.  
“We crossed a big fucking line here already. You walking out doesn’t uncross that line.”

It’s funny. Neither of them committed to anything. Neither of them did anything - neither of them even _said_  anything, and yet Sam is one hundred percent correct. Even if Dean walked out now and they never spoke about it again, something has already changed. There was no changing it back: no undoing this.

“I mean, I can go on pretending that you didn’t watch me and it didn’t get you off. You can go on pretending that you didn’t see me and you didn’t come in after that wanting something more. But we both know that happened. So...”

Dean swallows thickly.  
“Sammy, I’m sorry.”  
And he is - he really is.

Next to him, Sam shifts again: he stretches one leg along the sheet and sighs. There’s a silence again, and Dean doesn’t expect it to break. He gets lost in it, his mind blank and heavy, head hanging, until he can almost see in the dark.

“You want to go with it?” Sam asks him carefully.

Dean raises his head again, looks at the younger and feels a painful jolt inside his chest.  
“That’s an option?” he asks to avoid answering.

Sam shrugs again.  
“I guess it is,” he says in a rather defeated voice, and Dean can hear a crooked, conflicted smile in it.

He feels exactly like Sam sounds.

Instead of answering, he reaches out for his brother, brushes his palm over the man’s warm shoulder. For the first time he realises he doesn’t really know _how_  to touch Sam: his entire life, he’s just tried to keep from doing it. To his surprise, however, Sam leans into it, exposes a little of his neck to him as if to give him the choice of answering without using words. Still hesitating, Dean brings his fingertips over the younger’s skin there underneath his hair and caresses him, trying to decide what he should be feeling. Sam’s lips part again, letting out a silenced little breath, and Dean feels like what he’s about to break now is _sacred_ , something no one has the right to defile. He pulls his hand back and draws a shaky breath.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and his voice is lost and betrays just how scared he feels. The heat that drove him here is nearly gone: he’s still hard, but only half-so, and the rest of it is melting away fast.

He feels Sam look at him for a long while but there’s no way he could ever look back at him now. He just doesn’t have what it takes.

“And I trust you,” the younger says after a while, “and if you want this - if you want to touch me - just touch me.”

Dean’s neck hurts when he forces himself to look somewhere towards Sam’s direction again.

 _I don’t know what I want, Sam,_  he wants to say.  
I want to be close to you.  
I want to feel you.  
_But I want to be your brother._

"You want that?” he asks instead, quiet to hide the vulnerability in his voice this time.

Sam chuckles again, and it’s a little lighter now, a little relieved.  
“I’m just going with it,” he says, stopping to think for a moment afterwards.  
“I think - we’re asking the wrong questions here. I’m talking about touching, but what we’re really asking is... if we want to go the whole way. As if we can’t stop after we make that decision. And it’s not like that, really. What I want - right now - is that you touch me. I don’t know how, exactly, but I know that you want to, too. And maybe you don’t know how to, either. But if you - if you do - it doesn’t mean that you have to keep going after that.”

Some warmth returns to Dean’s fingertips and he draws in air again, having held his breath without noticing for quite some time.

“We can stop,” he repeats and closes his eyes for a moment.  
It doesn’t make the idea any better.

“I know you will if I want you to. If you want to stop -”

“We can,” Dean finishes the sentence.

Sam nods.  
“So if there’s - if you still want to - you can do that to me now. I’ll tell you if I change my mind. You’ll tell me if you change yours.”

It’s Dean’s turn now, and he nods too. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just sits there and tries to listen to the voices all screaming on top of each other in his head. One commands him to stop, another just repeats as if stuck on a loop that they can’t possibly do that, they’re _brothers_  - but there’s one force in him that is stronger than any single one of those voices, and it’s not a sound, not a word, not a command but a _need_  to feel Sam’s warmth again. So he raises his hand and brings it over Sam’s neck, his palm moving over the side to the back and then into his hair, caressing him. And it’s suddenly as if his brother’s purring inaudibly: he stretches into the touch, presses into it and a small breath escapes him, and Dean can see him close his eyes and part his lips in relief.

How could _that_  be wrong?

He’s not hurting Sam.

He leans in, heart pounding in his chest, and brushes Sam’s hair aside to expose the same side of his neck that his hand just touched. He presses his lips over it, and almost jumps back at the sound that Sam makes before he realises that that, too, is entirely out of pleasure and want, not pain or disgust or fear. He kisses him once, then returns for another, this one lingering: it takes a while for him to realise he’s so nervous that he barely pays attention to how it feels to _him,_ and he tries to relax, tasting for the first time the freshly-washed skin of Sam’s when he runs the tip of his tongue over it tryingly, timidly. Sam’s hand presses over his chest and stays there, and he can feel his own heartbeat reflect from his touch. He’s growing harder again, and he realises that he can smell arousal over his brother, too; it makes his world tilt slightly and his lips dig in with more determination than before.

“Feels good,” he can barely hear Sam tell him, “You alright?”

“Mm.”

Dean moves from the younger’s neck back to his shoulder, then down along his collarbone and then, shivering, back up over the sensitive front of his neck. He trails his tongue around Sam’s Adam’s apple and feels it bob as the other swallows, Sam’s gasp hitting his hair in a gentle, warm blast.

They’re pressed closer now, the warmth of Sam’s body radiating against Dean’s, and carefully, Dean leans closer to him again, pushing him gently on his back on the bed. It feels... right, natural, and Sam submits to his lead without any tension in his body, his other hand charging over Dean’s back, fingers crawling over his shirt, wrinkling it and then stroking it smooth again. Dean feels his hand fist into the fabric and lets him pull the shirt off him; it seems to mark a transition of some sort from playing around with the idea of this to really, actually, living it. Now almost as naked as Sam is, Dean leans back over him again.

“You like, um.”  
It’s much easier in the dark. Easier to forget that this isn’t... that they _shouldn’t._  Instead, now that he’s gotten this far, Dean just feels relieved and there’s something else there, too; the burn of his heat has dispersed enough to make room for the absolute, _desperate_  love he feels for his brother. For the time being, it’s easy to drown in it and let it dictate everything he does.  
“You like being - you know - touched the way you were touching yourself before?”

An arrested breath escapes Sam.  
“Yeah,” he says in a breathless, tense voice, “I like that.”

“You want me to... do that to you?”

A small nod.  
“Go ahead.”

Dean holds his breath again, this time consciously. His entire body is tense but this time with excitement: he hasn’t felt this way in years, and right now it feels like he’s never felt like this quite this intensely before at all. He could laugh about it: God, he _wants_  this. Wants to be with Sam. Wants to make him feel good - make him smile, laugh, tremble and rock into his touch. Wants this tension and silence and awkwardness to disappear.

He loves him.

It should be alright.

Sam’s skin is still wet there, slippery with lube. Dean doesn’t know how to touch his cock so he doesn’t, even though he knows he _should_  - he’s just not ready for that yet, and he hopes that Sam understands.  
Isn’t that what he said, anyway? That they can stop at any time - at any limit - if it makes either uncomfortable? Wasn’t that the plan? He wonders how it feels like for Sam, if he’s still alright, and whether or not this should be a bigger, not smaller, step than touching his cock, but there’s a difference. It’s different to press his finger against Sam’s relaxed, hot, wet flesh and feel him, gently, from the inside than to dive right in the deep end and make him come. This won’t; Dean knows that well enough. He lets out a deep breath and presses closer against Sam, the man’s long legs parting around him to let him there, as he moves his finger deeper and then pulls it out again. He wants to look Sam in the eyes but it takes a lot of courage for him to do so: when he does, Sam looks back at him, eyes trusting and serious, and the look of him just makes something inside Dean _break._  He can feel it shatter, like a balloon popping inside him somewhere, and the pieces of it scatter within his chest and his heart skips a beat.

He feels a smile on his lips and cowers from Sam’s eyes again, finger moving back inside him, accompanied by the tip of another.

Sam's already stretched out. Dean could shove up a third in him right away and it wouldn’t hurt him. The toy’s left plenty of lube inside him and it’s easy to move his fingers, but it’s not about that. It’s not about making his _body_  ready. It’s about making them both ready, mind more than the flesh; Dean needs these steps for himself, and Sam needs them to know that he’s listening, to know that Dean cares about him, that they’re here together and for each other.

How the hell did they get here?

“You still with me, little brother?”

“Right here, Dean. Feels good.”

Dean nods. It does. It _does_  feel good. Maybe he’s not blind with arousal anymore, but he sure as hell is getting there again: touching Sam like this is making his body positively twist with pleasure. Jolts upon jolts rush through him, each movement of his finger could as well be brushing right over his own nerves, and he’s breathing heavy again, cock pressing against Sam’s body every now and then. He pulls back each time, tries to hide his own arousal like it didn’t belong there, but there are few things he wants more than to eventually sink right into Sam with his whole length - as much as the thought still scares him.

He hopes Sam knows that, but he doesn’t know how to ask. Those words just don’t seem to belong between them.

_Hey, brother, is it alright if I fuck you in the ass?_

Dean tries to make the world disappear again by closing his eyes, and he brings his lips over Sam’s, unthinking, to claim them. Sam jumps a little, and Dean catches it from him, pulling back half an inch or so in fear that he crossed a line there that Sam wasn't ready for. He feels Sam’s breath over his mouth for one shaky exhale, but then Sam pushes back against him and claims his lips instead, his touch hungry, needy, but somehow not so in a strictly sexual manner: it feels more as if he’s waited for this his whole life, and Dean indulges him.

The kiss distracts him. He’s three fingers deep when he pulls out, unthinking, and moves his hand over Sam’s cock instead. A long, broken, whimper-like sound of pleasure injects itself into the kiss, vibrating over Dean’s lips. He feels as if he’s eating it from Sam’s mouth, taking it in as his fist runs over Sam’s cock, and then he feels Sam’s fingers brush over his own questioningly through the fabric of his briefs before he dares to push them out of the way and takes a proper grip of Dean in return. Sam’s leg climbs up over Dean’s waist, pulls him closer, and the implication of the movement makes air escape Dean: he breathes it over Sam’s lips, wishing he could say something, anything, but coming up with a shaky laughter instead. He positions himself better, knees on each side of Sam’s body, and it’s so... it’s... he doesn’t have words for it, but it grips his stomach and makes him feel like everything in his life has existed just to lead him to this moment. That this, here, is everything he’s ever wanted, needed, and that everything else, everyone else up to this point has just been practice for being here with Sam. For making it _perfect_.

Sam’s free hand moves up to grip his fist, drags it away from where it’s climbed into his hair to tug and brush without Dean’s explicit consent. He pulls it down, guides it until Dean stretches his fingers and presses them over his soft hole again, driving them in as he keeps jerking Sam off with the other hand, and God, it takes everything he’s got not to come right there and then: Sam seems to notice, likely feels it from the way Dean’s cock all but bucks in his grip, and lets go. It doesn’t help _that_ much, not when he thrusts up into Dean’s touch and moans audibly, but somehow Dean manages to shut the brewing orgasm down by clenching his teeth painfully and holding his breath like he’s suddenly deep underwater. It fades into an angry pressure in the pit of his stomach and he’s shaking like he’s just lifted a boulder.

“Close one, huh?” Sam laughs, his hand brushing through Dean’s hair; Dean leans his head into the touch.

He didn’t mean to, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.

“You went so tense I thought you just -”

“Shut up,” Dean growls and thrusts with his fingers.

Whatever happens, he didn’t intend that either. Sam’s body flashes rigid, then loosens up: his entire frame bucks up to the touch, breath hitching and then rushing out in a gasp, and Dean lifts his brows in the dark and stills to wait, worried he managed to tear something. Sam’s hand remains in his hair, however, and swiftly, a little carelessly, brushes through again.

“Do that again,” he breathes tensely.

“You sure?”

“ _Hell_ yes.”

Dean, still unconvinced, replicates the thrust he’d meant to be something akin to a light slap rather than... this. It tenses Sam up again, makes him moan: his body bends up, presses against Dean’s and stays there for a moment, arched, trembling, before Sam finds it in him to relax again.

“ _Damn_ ,” he whispers with half a laugh wrapping the word up, “Damn. That... wow.”

“Again?”

“No. I’ll - I think I’ll die if you do it again.”

Dean chuckles awkwardly, uncertain if he should take that literally or not. He pulls his fingers out and, while Sam's catching his breath, takes a moment to wriggle out of the briefs that are now slowly making their way down his thighs.

“You’re good, you know,” Sam finally says, his voice annoyingly impressed.

“What, you thought I had all that practice for nothing?” Dean asks him in an irritated voice.

“No, it’s just -”  
For a moment, Sam falls quiet.  
“You ever been with a man before?” he asks then, his tone different, more serious.

Dean leans back, sitting on his knees between Sam’s spread legs and feels suddenly exposed again. The irritation fades and makes his cock twitch impatiently.

“No,” he says then, “Never. But I mean - I’m a guy, right? So I - I know how to make a guy feel good.”

And then, suddenly like he’s been hit with a bullet full of ice, a single thought makes everything else fall aside. And fuck, he’s jealous. He’s really, really fucking jealous.

“How about you?” he asks, “You ever - had somebody?”

He doesn’t even know why it matters. He’s never cared about any of the exes of _anyone_ before. Sleeping with people doesn’t change a person, doesn’t take anything away from them, but somehow, he just... all this time, he’s trusted he’s Sam’s first. He _wants_  to be Sam’s first. Girls he can take, but imagining a strange man between Sam’s legs makes his insides boil. Like somehow, within the past forty minutes or so, that place has become his - as if he could demand that from Sam, or anyone at all.

Sam stays quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice that Dean barely recognises, he asks; “What counts?”

It’s a sharp, bitter, shattered voice. A painful one. Not something that Dean expected.

“What do you mean what _counts_?” Dean asks him, the mess of selfish feelings making way for concern instead.

“I mean - I was in the Cage.”

Saying it seems to strangle Sam’s throat. He clears it, swallows, and still looks like he’s suffocating. Everything in Dean’s body relaxes again. The jealousy’s gone. There’s nothing there, like it never existed at all. He breathes out, wipes his fingers into the sheets and then reaches the back of his palm out to brush over Sam’s jaw and cheek.

“That _doesn’t_ count.”  
He tries not to choke on his next words, covers it up with a hollow grimace.  
“If it count, then my answer would have been different, too.”

Sam’s eyes flicker towards him and he nods slightly. Then, bravely, he smiles and lets out a small chuckle.  
“So, I guess not, then.”

“We’re just naturally talented, huh.”

“Seems like it.”

The next kiss is shared like it belongs there, like they’ve been doing this for years, decades. Like it’s all just a puzzle piece that belonged there the entire time. Dean tries to remember, just for the sake of it, what the world has hammered in his head his whole life: that it’s wrong to feel this way, wrong to want these things, but it just doesn’t feel like anything anymore. If Sam feels it too, then, hell, what difference does it make? They’ve never been poster children for a healthy lifestyle, anyway.

“You want to do it?” Sam asks him when the kiss breaks.

Dean’s relieved: he doesn’t have to word it now.  
“Yeah. I do. You in it, too?”

Sam nods.  
“All the way.”

Dean presses up close to him again, wraps an arm underneath his back, pulls him closer. Sam’s leg is over his back again, pressing him forwards, and there’s a teasing look in his eyes, like he’s challenging him.

“Ready?”

“Been for about an hour now,” Sam huffs, “Got into it before you banged your head into the door, remember?”

“My, uh, my cock’s a bit thicker than your toy, in case you haven’t noticed yet.”

“You’re just bragging.”

“Really, Sam? Really?”

Sam laughs, and, well, at least Dean can cross that off his list now. He presses his forehead against Sam’s when he moves forwards, the tip of his cock pressing between Sam’s legs, sliding over his wet skin. He shudders and holds on a bit tighter, but his body’s on fire and he _needs_ this. And Sam’s adjusting himself, presenting himself for Dean to take, all spread legs and nails on Dean’s back, panting quietly between them, his breath mixing with Dean’s heavy huffs. 

He’s not wrong. He’s well and ready for this, and Dean sinks into him like he belongs there. Their bodies join quietly, Sam’s breath catching every now and then as Dean fills him up but he doesn’t tense or let out a sound, and Dean does his best to keep moving slowly, not entirely certain how careful he needs to be. Once he’s in, though, with about half of his cock, he just wants to let go.

“C’mon, Dean.”

“You good?”

“Yeah. Need you.”

Dean thrusts once, and it feels like his entire body is filling up with sparks. His skin tingles, his muscles tremble and he clings onto Sam with a gasp, then moves again: his hips rock back and forth in a small movement, stretching Sam up, and he bites back hard again in fear of coming like a teenage boy into his brother just from the feel of him surrounding his cock. Surrounding _him_. All of him, actually. Sam’s arms wrap around him, and his thighs still press against Dean’s body even though he’s not guiding his movements anymore. Like he wants to be as close as possible, just like Dean does - like they’re just as desperate to be inside each other, around each other, _one_ with each other.

“Kinda need to let you know I’m not gonna last very long,” Dean grunts, heat charging up his cheeks from shame.

“’S good. ‘S good, Dean. Keep going. I need to feel you.”

He feels like heaven against Dean. Like every part of their bodies just fits together, and each of their movements somehow matches the other’s right away - like they’re reading each other’s minds somehow, even though Dean’s hardly paying attention. He’s lost in it, the sensations and the moment being everything he knows, and he’s never felt closer with anyone, never quite this seamless and complete. He rocks into Sam and feels him rock right back at him, his body taking Dean in completely, and he’s shaking and the sounds he’s making are the best Dean’s ever heard coming out of _anyone_. It’s so rare, he realises, to hear Sam enjoy anything - rare to have him relax, rare to have him let go. All that tension he usually carries with him, the burden of concerns and self-control that he’s all but chained to himself is suddenly gone completely, and he seems to melt in Dean’s arms, become someone much more alive, much more present than he usually is. He seems like he’s radiating light, and Dean buries his face into the crook of his neck and kisses him raw, chasing out sounds from him, the louder the better until he’s a shaking, moaning mess. Dean’s not much better: he’s forgotten how to breathe, and all he can do is gasp and grunt, his voice a constant undertone to everything they do as he moans low and rough against Sam’s skin, teeth nipping but never biting at the skin where he can almost feel a thousand pale purple bruises forming.

“C-coming, Dean, mm.”

“Untouched? Just like that?” Dean breathes, trying to pay back for the jokes earlier but failing miserably, his voice shaking and tongue failing to form proper syllables.

Sam bends up to bite at his neck once, a sharp pain flashing through Dean’s body and leaving behind a throbbing ache.  
“Touch me, then,” he hears the younger hiss as he relaxes back over Dean’s arm.

And Dean does. He wraps his hand around Sam’s cock and the heat of it, the thick hardness of it in his grip greets him with a twitch. He doesn’t even get to run his palm over it once in full before Sam tenses, and that’s it. Dean’s never had an orgasm like that. It rushes him from his toes up, grips at his stomach like an anchor gutting him, runs through his spine like a lightning and bends him into a miserable, constricted ball over Sam’s body, holding tight, unable to make a sound, head swimming, eyes blind. And Sam’s holding back, his muscles tightening and loosening repeatedly around Dean’s length as if to milk him dry; he feels his come fill Sam up and in a flash he worries that maybe he wasn’t _allowed_  to, only for that thought to be pushed aside by the realisation that he’s never done that with anyone before, either. He’s always used protection.

And, shit, he should have done that now, too. It just never occurred to him.

Out of all the thoughts in the world, these are the last ones he expected to be thinking with his cock softening up inside his little brother, wasted, done for, about to die of exhaustion.

Sam’s hand runs shakily through his hair and over his neck onto his shoulders, hesitates for a moment and then keeps going down. Once it reaches the limit of its reach, it returns up and does it all over again, and all Dean wants to do is to stay like that forever, even if it means fighting against his dimming consciousness and staving off sleep for an eternity. Just that - he can’t do that.

It takes him enormous effort to lift himself up. He falls back on his knees and watches Sam still spread over the bed, his hand now resting over his stomach, stains of come all over it just like there are stains over Dean’s body. Then, in a gesture that makes Dean choke again, he runs his fingers down his body and presses them over his stretched hole, closes his eyes and pushes a finger in.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Dean hears himself breathe out, and Sam chuckles wearily.

“It’s not really my fault that you made a huge mess out of me. Fuck.”  
He withdraws his finger and shivers visibly.  
“I know I need to take a shower but all I want to do is just... sleep.”

Dean makes an indifferent sound and finally manages to crawl a few inches to the side so that he can fall back down on the bed next to Sam. With one eye open, he peers at Sam for a moment until the hard pressure against his leg makes him groan and reach underneath him. He picks up the toy Sam had hidden what seems like an eternity ago and discards it on the floor behind him somewhere. It makes a dull thud of a sound as it hits the ground.

“Then sleep,” he utters then, closing his eyes.

There’s a short silence, ended by another of Sam’s tired chuckles.  
“Yeah. Think ‘m gonna do that.”

“Mm.”

Dean can’t look when Sam pulls himself up - he just doesn’t have the energy anymore. However, he's glad to feel a blanket fall over him.

“Good night, Dean,” Sam’s voice seems to come from somewhere much further away than the spot he falls back to, his knuckles brushing and then settling against the back of Dean’s hand on the bed between them as he curls up beside him.

“G’night, Sammy.”


End file.
